Rogue Wolves

by James Quinn

  It was night and there was a party or celebration going on. A Mariachi band was playing a soft, slow tune. But it was the guests… Gorilla took a step nearer to the glass to get a better look. He opened the patio doors and stepped out into the warm air of the night. He breathed it in and then focused on the scene that lay before him.

  There must have been at least fifty people down on the lawn, all wearing the same mask – a white skull with dark, hollowed eyes. At one time, the men must have been dressed in black suits and the women in black gowns. But not anymore; now, it was an orgy.

  There were men and women in various states of undress and in various stages of carnal sex. Gorilla imagined that this was what it must have been like for the Ancient Romans. A woman was making love to two men at the same time, her mask pushed up so that she could perform fellatio on one of them while the other man entered her from behind. Couples were everywhere, some as a duo, and some as a threesome. A fat woman was eating out a tall black woman, the woman shrieking as she finished her orgasm.

  There was one group of people, Gorilla wasn't sure how many, that reminded him of a pit of snakes, limbs intertwined and slithering against each other in a soup of sweat and semen. In one corner, a tall, skinny white man was sodomising a naked Mexican man while a group of women watched them and masturbated.

  The sounds and smells of sex permeated the night, clothes were scattered everywhere and watching it, detached, from a distance, Gorilla thought that the orgy resembled a living thing, undulating, sweating and moving in rhythm to the slow tempo of the band. It was like watching a car crash; you wanted to look away, but the spectacle kept drawing your eyes back to it.

  “Isn't it a beautiful sight?”

  Gorilla froze at the sound of the voice from behind him. Then he slowly turned his whole body to see who had spoken. He would know that voice anywhere. It was the voice that had tortured him. He turned and he looked. He took in the dark suit in the tall frame, he took in the skull mask and he shuddered. The figure lifted one elegant hand up and removed the mask.

  Gorilla saw the devil.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The face was not that of a killer, at least not initially. If anything, he had the look of an aristocratic nobleman. It was long, patrician in nature, the bone structure strong, the skin tanned.

  The jet black hair, with streaks of grey at the sides, was swept back dramatically, giving his face a sleek quality. The mouth was a cruel slash that held both contempt and sensuality in equal portions. But it was the eyes that held Gorilla; dark and brooding, hidden beneath the hollows of the sockets and flanked with the lines of age.

  Physically, the man was tall and slender with the poise and build of the natural athlete. The hands were large and strong, the fingers long and elegant. They were hands that could play a piano concerto or strangle you with equal measure, thought Gorilla. He knew that the man was in his early sixties, but he had a life-force and vitality radiating from him that made him look at least twenty years younger.

  It was only when the man moved across the room towards him, that Gorilla truly saw the cat-like presence and contained power of Caravaggio as he walked. The tall man stopped a few feet away.

  “Would you like to indulge, Mr Grant?” said Caravaggio, indicating the orgy outside. “I'm sure it can be arranged.”

  “No. Not my thing.”

  “Each to their own,” said Caravaggio. “It is something that I do annually. Today is the Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead here in Mexico, when the spirits of the deceased are honoured by their loved ones. I tend not to believe in such things, so instead, every year I throw a celebration and I invite a specially selected list of guests. There are gangsters, corrupt politicians, drug lords, killers, business people and members of several large organised terrorist groups. All are rich and powerful. None of them have ever met before.

  “They have all employed me as an assassin in the past, although none of them knows me by the name of Caravaggio. They think I am a wealthy playboy who likes to host elite sex parties. None of them have any clue as to my real profession.

  “When they arrive, they are welcomed by my staff and are offered drinks laced with a special chemical cocktail that I appropriated from the KGB's Special Warfare Division many years ago. It dramatically lowers their inhibitions. The more they drink, the more the drug takes effect. Nature takes its course and inevitably, the allure of sex arises. Within the hour, the orgy is usually in full swing.”

  “Is there a point to it all, or is this just how you get off these days?” said Gorilla dismissively.

  “Oh, there is absolutely a point to it, Mr Grant. We film everything here, we have visual, and we have audio. I have carried out many parties like this one. I assure you it is not for my own personal gratification.”

  “So what? You use the material for blackmail purposes?”

  “Exactly! It buys my protection and funds my operations. You would be amazed how many wealthy people can be coerced. In the past, we have had the wife of a certain President become pregnant by his closest political rival! Can you imagine how much they would pay to keep that quiet? Even now, looking down by the pool, I can make out a leading member of one of the American La Cosa Nostra families, a good Catholic and family man, being pleasured by the wife of a German terrorist leader. Imagine how much that Italian would pay to have those images not released!” said Caravaggio.

  “As long as they keep drinking the champagne, they will continue with… this?”

  Caravaggio shrugged. “It's the type of operation that I would run in the past for many, many intelligence networks. It's what we do, isn't it? Blackmail, threaten, murder. I simply decided that I would use it for my own enterprise.”

  He seems to revel in being the master manipulator, thought Gorilla. He likes to view himself as holding all the threads and controlling the puppets. It gives him a sense of identity. In truth, Gorilla thought he was a fucking idiot.

  “But enough of distractions,” said Caravaggio, changing the subject. “I thought we might play a game, Mr Grant.”

  “What kind of a game?”

  “Oh, the game that we play every day in our profession. A game for assassins!”

  “A duel?”

  Caravaggio nodded. “In a way, but with a most interesting prize. Something that we both want. To be the best!”

  “Eunice? Where is she?”

  “Ah, yes. Miss Brown, of course. She is not far. Chang is keeping her quite safe. We will visit her soon, I promise.”

  “You were saying something about a prize?”

  “Indeed,” said Caravaggio. “If you win, you get the luxury of killing me and completing your mission – in short, you get to safeguard the secrets that I know about. I will hand over the files to you. I win, I take your head and the head of the beautiful Miss Brown, return them in a box to the SDECE and the CIA and release some of the agents' names and the operations that I have been privy to. I'm sure the western press would be enthralled by my information.”

  So Caravaggio was going for the big prize: murder and the release of intelligence information. Even the limited amount of information that he had at his disposal would put hundreds of agents and operatives in danger.

  Gorilla took a breath and looked down at the continuing orgy. Whatever Caravaggio had drugged them with showed no signs of abating – if anything, it seemed to make the men more rampant and violent. A small, petite blonde woman was being held down and gang-raped. Gorilla felt like he wanted to puke.

  Gorilla glared at Caravaggio and said, “I want to see Eunice first.”

  “Then we must go to the Arena,” said Caravaggio.

  They had to walk through the throng of the orgy and past the pool. Gorilla ignored the spectacle around him and tried to focus his thoughts on what Caravaggio might have in store for him. A duel, he had said, or at least hinted at. Not that Gorilla was unarmed now. He still had the razor in his pocket and his fists, too, of course. But a perverse part of him wanted to
see this through to the end.

  They walked for another five hundred feet, the noise from the party fading with each step, until they had reached a clearing on the extreme of Caravaggio's estate that was surrounded by swamp and jungle. What lay before them was a modern version of a Roman amphitheatre.

  It was curved in shape and consisted of three levels that seated no more than a hundred people. Its floor was of the sand variety, in accordance with the tradition of a combat arena. Gorilla doubted that it was original; it had probably been built specifically on Caravaggio's orders. In the centre of the circular floor Gorilla made out a glint of steel. His eyes took a moment to focus and then he recognised what they were: revolvers.

  At the open end of the curve was a small, raised podium that was illuminated by two flaming torches. At the front of the podium, standing as if on guard, was the little assassin and torturer Chang, dressed in his usual black suit. But behind him was Eunice. She was standing, tied by the wrists to two poles which were embedded in the ground. She was wearing an olive green mini dress with a rope belt and lace-up gladiator-style sandals. Her arms were up-stretched so that they made a 'V' shape. The flaming torches cast a red glow on her skin and made her hair look even more vibrant.

  He glanced over at her. He thought she looked beautiful. “You okay?”

  The withering look she gave him told him not to ask dumb-ass questions. Instead, she said, “I'm fine, Jack, just fine.”

  “We thought, given Miss Brown's skill-set, that it would be better for all concerned if she was restrained,” said Caravaggio, gently stroking the side of her face and letting his fingers tenderly run down her cleavage.

  She snapped at him and tried to bite his hand. Caravaggio pulled it away quickly. “How vicious, my dear.”

  “Try that again and you'll lose fingers,” she warned.

  Caravaggio scowled at the insolent woman and turned to more pressing matters. He turned and looked out at the darkness of the seats around the amphitheatre and said clearly, “Gentlemen, if you would join us?”

  Gorilla looked around, confused. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he made out the dark shapes of two anonymous spectators making their way down to join them.

  “Allow me to introduce two very special guests who will be joining us. Mr Devlin and Mr Nash,” said Caravaggio. One man was tall and well-built and the other small and thin. Both were wearing dark suits and they looked alert and professional.

  Caravaggio turned to Gorilla to explain. He motioned towards the small, thin man with the murderer's face.

  “Mr Devlin is one of the finest Irish gunmen that I have ever come across. Over recent years, he has built up quite a kill-list on the streets of Northern Ireland for the IRA.”

  Next, he waved a hand over at the tall, heavy-set man. “Mr Nash works for several organised crime families along the East Coast of the United States, the La Cosa Nostra boys in Philly, Chicago and New York. His speciality is, I believe, close quarter shooting with the Italian lupara.”

  Lastly, Caravaggio placed a comradely hand on Gorilla's shoulder. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce to you the third member of our little contest this evening. Gorilla Grant, formerly of the British Secret Service. Gentlemen, I have seen Mr Grant's shooting prowess up close and I can assure you that he is not to be underestimated.”

  Both men nodded blank-faced in greeting.

  “Excellent!” said Caravaggio, as he walked out into the middle of the arena and took centre stage. He turned to his captive audience.

  “Gentlemen, we shall follow the rules of all duellists before us – the code duello. We will inspect our own weapons, then, when Chang calls, we shall turn our backs and walk to the edge of the killing ground, about ten yards. Then when Chang calls the second time, we turn let battle commence. The man who remains standing takes all. Any questions?”

  Gorilla shrugged. “It sounds simple enough.”

  “Then please, let us collect our weapons and begin,” said Caravaggio.

  Gorilla took in the scene for a moment, to concentrate his mind: the arena of death, the hit men, Eunice Brown a prisoner, Caravaggio and his little throat-slitter Chang, who stood around like an executioner. He felt as if he were trapped in a sick game on an island solely populated by the insane.

  He closed his eyes, took in a breath and nodded to Caravaggio. He looked the tall assassin dead in the eye and said, “Let's get on with it.”

  Each of the assassins started off slowly, cautiously, walking the perimeter of the amphitheatre, circling each other, each weighing the other up, alert in case of any tricks. When none seemed evident, they continued with their slow-paced walk, eyes locked, until they reached their respective positions at the centre of the circle where the revolvers had been placed.

  They all individually bent down and hefted the large .44 Calibre revolvers in their hands, testing the weight of them. Gorilla recognised it as a Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver with a 6” barrel. He flicked open the cylinder and inspected the six cartridges inside. Then, satisfied, he closed it back up and held it loosely at his left-hand side.

  “Nice gun, Caravaggio,” said Nash, his Brooklyn twang coming through. “I do like the old school wheel guns. Reliable.”

  “I prefer a semi-automatic meself,” muttered Devlin.

  “Ah, gentlemen, I chose these for a reason. Yes, they are reliable, as Mr Nash correctly states, but even more so, I wanted a limited amount of ammunition so that we can test ourselves to the extreme. I call it the law of the minimum. Six shots, that is all.”

  “And the money, the loot? When I've won, it will be ready for me?” said Nash, confident and cocky.

  Caravaggio turned and stared the Irishman down. “I can assure you, Mr Nash, that the agreement will be met in full. If you win…”

  “ATTENTION!” called Chang. They all gave each other one final glance and then stood back to back in the centre of the arena.

  They pushed off from each other's backs, taking their first steps, and all the while Chang was calling out the paces. Gorilla felt the weight and slickness of the revolver in his left hand. This would not be like shooting the lighter ASP that he was used to. A .44 bullet was very unforgiving and he just hoped that his left hand was able to handle the jolt of the weapon when he fired.

  “Five… four… three… two…” said Chang.

  Chang called for the duellists to stop. Gorilla had decided what he would do, which was ignore the head shot and aim for the centre of mass. A .44 bullet at this range would knock the taller man off his feet. He could always finish Caravaggio off with a second shot.

  “Ready… turn… FIRE!” called Chang.

  Gorilla turned and was just in time to see the Irishman, Devlin, aim a shot at him, but it was high and wide. Gorilla ducked, feeling the whizz of the bullet as it passed him by. Out of the corner of his eye to the left, he saw Nash bringing up his own weapon and firing a single shot at the distracted Irishman. The bullet took him in the side of the head, making a gaping hole that poured blood.

  Devlin dropped onto the sand, dead. One competitor down.

  Gorilla fired a warning shot at Nash, but because of the angle it, too, missed. And then Nash was running for the concealment of the jungle.

  Next, Gorilla pivoted in one perfectly executed move, his body crouched to make himself a smaller target. His revolver was up and already he was aligning the barrel on where he thought the main target, The Master, would be and he prepared to fire…

  But Caravaggio had gone.

  The Master ran fast, his body moving with the power and grace of a panther. He avoided the vines and tree limbs in the forest easily and pushed deeper into the heart of darkness.

  When he had purchased the island more than a decade ago from the Mexican government, for a hefty fee, he had chosen it primarily for its hostile environment. He knew that inside the grounds of the villa there was relative safety and security, but that outside, it was a killing ground. The impenetrable coastline, jungle and swamps that
made up the majority of the mile-long island, were enough to deter even the most determined of attackers.

  Caravaggio himself had transported wild crocodiles, ocelots, grey wolves, snakes and a pair of jaguars to roam freely upon his island and more than one guest that had been invited to the island had ended up as fodder for the killers roaming the jungle.

  He had spent many months familiarising himself with the terrain; he knew its dips, falls, and crevices. So in a sense, Caravaggio had an advantage. He knew the ambush points and, against his younger challengers, that would go a long way when gun was against gun.

  He climbed further and further up the incline, eager to have the high ground. He dug the heels of his boots into the earth and pushed forward. Already, his shirt was saturated with moisture and clung to his body. Just as he reached the first crest of the hill, he heard a noise behind him, a rustling of the jungle floor that definitely wasn't animal.

  He stopped and turned, aiming his weapon in a point-shooting technique. He instinctively dropped to one knee and waited. But he could see no figures moving in the darkness. It was an impenetrable wall of blackness. He knew that Gorilla Grant was down there somewhere, hunting for him.

  My God, I feel alive, he thought. I am hunting men to the death in a hostile environment. He could feel his whole body, every nerve screaming at him. There was a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. And then, coming from the darkness, he heard gunfire.

  Nash fired twice at what he thought was his enemy. He knew that shooting at an unconfirmed target was amateurish at best, but, with the intense blackness all around him, he doubted that he would ever get a clear shot. Nash had pissed himself twice. He was a city boy through and through, so this fucking about in the jungle with the bugs and heat was something that wasn't grooving with him.